


Breakfast Blues

by rothalion



Category: Army Of Two (Video Game)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-21
Updated: 2015-07-04
Packaged: 2018-01-26 00:18:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1667783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rothalion/pseuds/rothalion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a bit of back story work for the guys. Rios is stressed and Elliot gets the crappy end of his ire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Breakfast Blues**

 

 

         Salem looked up from his breakfast when Nala shuffled into the kitchen still rubbing sleep from her dark brown eyes.

           "Grab a plate, And-A-Half, right side up eggs, crunchy ham, and toast."

           Nala smiled slightly and moved to the stove. She carefully slid two sunny sides up eggs, five slices of fried ham and a piece of burned, buttered soap onto a warmed plate. Then she placed the plate on the large granite breakfast bar and climbed onto the comfortable stool. After several bites Salem spoke.

       "Food ok, kiddo?"

       "Yup." She replied non-committedly. “Guess this is Blackened Bread, like daddy makes Blackened Mahi right.” She muttered holding up a slice of the toast by its corner.

         “Hey!”

         “Just saying, Dragon One.”

         They ate in silence for a while, and finally Salem looked over at the sulking girl. She was usually a bundle of energy.

            "What's up, Na?"

         The nine year old looked up from her food, and studied Salem. He sat still, a slice of ham in between his left index finger and thumb, smiling his slight crooked smile back at her. She furrowed her brow, tried to smile but found it difficult. Her uncle's eyes were puffy, and despite his small smile Nala knew he was exhausted, and it made her sad.

       "I heard you yelling at daddy last night."

       "Me?"

       Nala pulled the half gallon jug of pulp less orange juice across the island from Salem's side, took a long swig, and pushed it back to the middle.

       "Yup. Then him and mom were yelling"

       Salem frowned. He hadn't argued with Rios the night before so the comment confused him. He'd actually gone straight to bed just before 1400 hours, his exhaustion from the mission getting the better of him. He picked up another chunk of ham in his fingers and ripped a bit off. After he chewed it he grabbed the juice, downed a good sized gulp, wiped his lips with the back of his hand, and shrugged at the girl seated across from him.

     “They’re always yelling.”

       "Can I eat with my fingers too?"

       "Sure, tastes better that way. I guess maybe I had a bad dream, and that's what you heard. Your fat old man and me are good."

       "Ok. Did you get the bad guys and save the princess?"

       Elliot nodded as he scooped some of his runny eggs up with the ham chunk, and slipped it into his mouth. In this case the _princess_ was four German journalists grabbed by the Taliban in Malaysia. Certain people, not willing to risk the slow rolling wheels of bureaucracy to save them, were willing to pay SSC handsomely to extract them. He couldn't give the girl details for a couple of reasons. One, he didn't talk about work, and two, there were always confidentiality issues. She did know though, that for the mission Salem would need to be undercover pretending to be yet another hostage. He had allowed Taliban raiders to take him so that, via a very advanced com link surgically inserted in his neck and ear, he'd be capable of talking the rest of the team into the ultra-secure facility. It had been a stressful few days, and the extraction; although it went well, had been nothing short of a fighting retreat. They'd taken no injuries aside from bumps and bruises, but for Salem it had been a nerve wracking wait. Every time they interrogated him, there was a risk that, although very well hidden, they would discover the clever little device, and execute him. The initial op to extract him and the four Journalists from the Taliban stronghold should have lasted twenty-four to thirty hours. Things went awry, and instead he'd languished for five days wondering if the team had failed, or worse yet forgotten or given up on him and the others.

       "Everybody's safe and sound."

       "I tried to wait up, but Brittney sent me to bed."

       "S'ok. I was, we were beat kiddo. Pretty much just crashed, you know. One stiff shot a Stoli and out."

         Suddenly Nala, leaning her head in her left hand, her elbow perched on the table paused with a chunk of ham at her lips sat up straight. Salem looked at her, and saw a touch of fear in her eyes. Before he could speak Rios' gravelly command voice shattered the calm kitchen.

       "Where's your damned fork, Nala? How many times have I warned you about eating with your fingers? Elbows off my table."

       "Uncle Elliot does it.” She spat back defiantly, sitting up even straighter. “Said it tastes better this way."

       “Your fucking uncle does a lot of things you're not allowed to do. Get a knife and eat your ham like a proper young lady."

       Despite himself, Salem snorted, then took a swig from the orange juice jug. Rios snatched it from his hand, and slammed it down on the counter so hard juice shot up and out of it. Salem flinched at the big man's display of temper. He rarely allowed his temper to flare in front of Nala. That he was, showed just how stressful the op had been for him as well. It also seemed that Tyson hadn’t gone straight to bed. He was clearly well hung over.

       “From the fucking jug again, Salem? Sam hates that shit!”

     “How is Samantha this morning?” Salem offered trying to turn the conversation. He asked the question with genuine concern. There was not even a hint of sarcasm in the query.

       “None a your god damned business, Salem.”      

       “Look Tyse, I didn't mean anything by it; the finger food. I’m sorry; I know how you and Samantha are raising..."

       "Fuck you Salem. You know dick about raising kids. You wouldn't know where to fucking begin, you’re damn near only an over grown, immature, fucking brat yourself. In my house, and this is _my_ house, my kid is gonna follow my rules. And for the record Salem, she is _my_ kid; the DNA paternity test proved it. So just..."

       “The what?” Salem spluttered. “You did what, Tyson?”      

         Salem pushed his plate away and looked over at Nala who stood near the silverware drawer with a small steak knife in her hand staring gaped mouthed at her furious father. She’d seen Jerry Springer on television, Samantha and her girlfriends watched it religiously. So even at nine she was well aware of what the test was for. Salem blinked at her and she shrugged. He wanted to scream at the big man, to just defend himself, but his righteous indignation at Rios stooping so low, as to having a paternity test preformed using his DNA quashed any chance of that. The breach of trust was so enormous and so unforgivable that Salem's anger actually took a back seat as he tried to wrap his head around Rios’ confession. He'd just spent five days being interrogated and knocked around because his trust in Rios’ ability to get him back was absolute. He squeezed his eyes shut, and stood slowly up. He nodded his head in seeming affirmation to his partner’s words; then spoke in a quiet, tremulous voice through quivering lips.

       "Think I turned out ok, Tyse. Hell, half the time I didn't have any supper to pick up with my fingers. Never had anyone to fix my manners, or set me straight on being a gentleman either, but I do ok I think. Nala's a fine little lady, and you probably are right. I aint got any business being around her or fine folks like you and your lovely wife. I..."

       "Dragon One stop it!"

       "S’ok Nala. And as for DNA; well, a fuck of a lot of bad water's gone under our bridge Tyson Rios, but none as bad as that, or this or fuck me I...." He halted, coughed to clear his throat and sighed deeply. "I got no words, Tyse. I got nothing. I just, I just can't believe, I mean why would you do...excuse me, Nala, but I think I should roll, kiddo. Remember to keep those elbows off the table. I love you And-A-Half. Take care of your dad for me, okay."

       He looked back over at Rios again and locked eyes with him. Facing his friend, his brother, the other half of his heart and soul and seeing not sorrow or apology in the man's dark brown eyes, but scorn broke him. This fight, if you could call it a fight, wasn’t their first. But this time, this breach of trust had broken something deep in Elliot's heart. He looked away as the first tears slipped free, and headed for his truck, shirtless and shoeless despite the cool winter temperature.

       Once in the truck he broke down. It would be a cold day in Hell before he crawled back this time; enough was enough. He checked his fuel and made for I-95 north. He needed to rest, he needed to feel needed and he needed someone he could trust. A part of him knew that Tyson hadn't come up with the paternity test idea on his own, someone, one of their own had been in his ear, and sowed the seed. That meant he could trust none of the team, after all, they obviously didn’t trust him. He wiped away his final tears, and pulled onto the interstate. Ft. Benning was thirteen hours away, and he wanted to, needed to get there as soon as possible.

    


	2. Driving Blind

**_ Chapter Two _ **

**_ Driving Blind _ **

**__ **

     

      “What the hell! Hey Bene, you better get out here, man.”

      “What’s up, Harry? Oh shit!”

      “Dude, he just smacked right into it. Must be fuckin’ shit faced. We better see if he’s hurt.”

      “Yea, hey Justin grab yours and Harry’s 1911’s, and get out here. We have a situation.”

      Once Justin met Gabe and Harry in the foyer of his home out in the country, the three men exited the house, and cautiously crept down the sidewalk toward what was once Gabe’s brick enclosed mailbox. With a flick of his right hand, the Staff Sergeant signaled for the two men to split up, and move around toward the front of the black truck and the rear, in a flanking maneuver; while he moved warily straight toward it. Both men were carrying side arms, charged and held low out of sight alongside of their right legs. You couldn’t be too careful with drunk folks.

      As they got to within fifteen feet of the wrecked Ford, the driver’s side door slammed open, and a man stumbled out onto the dark street. He dropped his keys onto the pavement, and after stumbling down to pick them up, rapidly turned, and faced Justin, in front of the vehicle and the closest man. Gabe caught a glimpse of the driver’s features in the truck’s remaining headlight and froze.

      “Guys, stand down. It’s Salem.”

      Both men immediately backed up, and allowed Gabe to approach the unsteady visitor.

      “Fifty, what’s going on, kiddo?”

      Salem stared back at his old platoon Sergeant, bleary eyed, and somewhat confused. Then, he looked over at his truck embedded in Gabe’s mailbox.

      “Guess I found the house, but missed the driveway.”

      “Yea, guess so,” Gabe said softly moving closer to him, “You ok?”

      “Yup. Why’re they packin’ Top?”

      “Dark as fuck out here, Fifty. Not every night someone crashes into my mailbox. Just being careful. We get some crazies out here off the base now and again.”

      “Back ‘em off a bit more, kay.”

      “Sure, Fifty. Justin, Harry, go on back in, and tell Dorrie to start some black coffee, and find Fifty something that’ll fit him.”

      The two men did as told, and Gabe stepped closer to Salem, who seemed tense despite being quite drunk.

      “Who else’s here?”

      “Odie’ll be back later on. He’s between apartments for a few months, while he’s waiting to deploy. Come on in.”

      Salem stumbled backwards nearly falling, and then righted himself. He studied Gabe in the trucks lone head light, and frowned.

      “Too crowded, just be on my way.”

      “Oh, no, no, no, Elliot. That’s not gonna happen. You’re shit faced, and your truck’s spewing coolant all over the road. Looks like tranie fluid too. I think you’re spending at least tonight.”

      “Walk.” He mumbled, turning away from Gabe, and tripping over his own bare feet. “Cold here though. Hate the cold, Top.”

      Gabe took the advantage, and stepped in behind him. He grasped Salem’s right elbow firmly, and spun him back round. Salem eyed the bigger man warily, and finally sighed, defeated.

      “Look, you drove all the way here, Fifty. So, you might as well stay. Come on in. Dorrie’s making coffee, and the guys are rustling you up some warm clothes. Come on Salem, ease up kiddo, relax. You’re safe now.”

      Once inside Gabe steered Salem into the warm country kitchen and settled him on a stool at the center island. Dorrie turned from the now brewing coffee maker, and crossed to the pair.

      “Elliot, it’s good to see you.”

      “Wrecked Gabe’s mailbox.”

      She squeezed his shoulder, and chuckled lightly. “It’s alright. I hated that pretentious monstrosity anyway.”

      “Really?”

      “Really. I made coffee, Elliot, but I’m thinking that what you need is sleep.”

      “Got any orange juice, and the stuff that goes in it? Vodka, yup Vodka’d be great right now.”

      “I think you’ve had enough to drink. How about just some juice.”

      “Just some Vodka with a little juice, Dorrie. Sure thanks.”

      “It’s okay Dor,” Gabe said nodding at her, “just go ahead.”

      Dorrie went to the bar to mix Salem’s drink, and Harry came into the kitchen.

      “Found him some clothes. They’ll be big, but warm. We need to try and get his truck out of the road.”

      “Fifty hand over your keys, kiddo.”

      “Top, I’m not gonna skip out, geeze.”

      “No, I need to get your truck into the driveway, Fifty. I don’t want somebody to run into it. Right?”

      “Fine.”

      Salem stood up, and after wobbling a bit extracted his keys from his short’s pocket. He held them out to Gabe, who in turn handed them to Harry. The man shook his head at Salem seeming confused about the entire situation, and then headed outside. Before he made it to the kitchen door Gabe stopped him.

      “Check if he’s got a bag or anything, Harry, _anything_ , ok?”

      “Copy that, back in a flash as long as long as it will start.”

      Then, Justin was there, “I turned down the bed in the other single room, and made sure that the bathroom was all stocked, look.”

      Gabe turned around, and chuckled. Salem was asleep on his forearms on the countertop.

      “Well looks like you did it just in time. Gimme a hand.”

      The pair carted Salem down the hall, into the bedroom, and stretched him out on the king sized bed. As Gabe was dragging the copious comforter up over him Justin sighed.

      “Looks like he took a recent beating. No, scratch that, Christ he’s all scared to shit. What’d you guys do, use him like bait?”

      Gabe looked down at the younger man, and studied Salem’s many scars. He knew that while the visible ones told a tale of sacrifice it was the hidden scars, the emotional scars that truly told Elliot’s story.

      “This, Justin is just the tip of the iceberg, as they say. What you see is bad enough, but what we can’t see, well…let’s just say that Fifty here is a fucked up man.”

      Later, that night, in bed Dorrie rolled over, and leaning on her elbows kissed Gabe gently on his lips. She was glad to have him home. His last deployment had been a bit of a strain upon them both, after the team went missing for two weeks. When he’d returned they’d had a long discussion about him possibly trying to get an assignment closer to home, and less risky. He was, she’d argued getting a bit up in years, to be traipsing around with men half his age.

      “So dad, why’s he here, and does Rios know where he is?”

      “I don’t know, and I doubt it. He’s got nothing with him except keys, his wallet and what he’s wearing. The truck’s clean. The fact that he’s not carrying is worrisome. He always packs something. Him and that little Makarov are damn near inseparable.”

      “Those bruises and cuts are recent. Not new really, but recent. Rios you think?”

      “Nah, more than likely an op. What’s weird too, is that Rios hasn’t called looking for him. Seems that if he went missing like he has, in the mood that he’s in, Tyson would be worried.”

      “Maybe he hasn’t been gone long enough to raise an alarm.”

      “Hmph, for them two, the time it takes Rios to go to the shitter is too long apart for Salem.”

      Dorrie chuckled, but the remark worried her. Her skills as a Profiler allowed her to see farther into Elliot than probably anybody else. Rios, if he would truly open his eyes, and look at the younger man would see more of Elliot’s heart, but the big soldier wouldn’t. Maybe it was fear that held him back, or guilt. Whatever it was, Dorrie knew that unless Rios came on line, and took a long hard look at Elliot, the pair would eventually explode.

      “Should we call him?”

      Gabe thought about it. If Salem had landed on his door step due to a fight with Rios, then, the man deserved to have safe harbor until he decided to poke his head back out. The fact that he’d come to them, in what was a desperate bid to escape whatever had occurred, was so completely out of character for Salem that he could think of only one situation that could cause it.

      “Not sure calling Rios would help. I can think of just one thing that would drive Salem here like he is Dor, and it’s not good. That Rios is dead.”

      Dorrie pondered the theory. While it seemed plausible, she felt that Salem would have been dressed differently. Still fresh from the op. As it was, he had on his board shorts, no shirt and no shoes. It was more like something had occurred, and he’d simply fled.

      “I don’t know it doesn’t entirely fit, and speculating won’t get us anywhere. So, goodnight and hopefully Mr. Fifty will fill us in come morning.”

      Morning came along bright and sunny, although the air held a bitter chill. Gabe, Dorrie, Justin, Harry and Freddy Yodell were gathered round the table eating lunch when Salem straggled out around one o’clock. He’d showered, and dressed in the faded Levis and big black sweat shirt that Justin and Harry had found for him. The clothes were too big, but at least they were warm. He’d done nothing more than scrub a towel through his wet unruly hair, and the puffy bags beneath his bangs shrouded eyes were a silent testament to his condition. His right cheek was bruised, and his lower left lip slightly split but healing. After pausing before the silent look of the group, he shuffled the rest of the way into the kitchen, and slid up into the remaining stool.

      The food looked good, but the smell of it churned his stomach. He wrinkled his nose a bit, and cleared his throat. When he finally spoke his voice was hoarse. The previous night, Gabe hadn’t noticed it, but then again Salem had said very little, and most of it had been in a near whisper.

      “Is there any coffee please?”

      “Sure Elliot, there on the counter, no sit, I’ll pour you a cup. What about some lunch?”

      “No thanks, stomach all in a bunch. Just the coffee black’s all.”

      “Coming right up.”

      “Guess I need to get moving. Gotta fix your mailbox. Where’s the nearest place for getting the stuff.”

      “Relax Fifty, it’ll wait. I propped the box up so he can get the mail in. Besides, your truck is done for. I called the shop, and the they can get you in on Friday. Tow trucks coming anytime now to grab it.”

      “Have to get my shit first, Top. I don’t trust those guys.”

      Harry furrowed his brow at the remark.

      “I didn’t see anything in it. I did a thorough search last night, like Gabe told me to.”

      Salem looked over at the young soldier thankful for a change that he wasn’t the baby in the crowd. The kid was twenty-two or three, and built to take a beating. Not big like Tyson, Salem thought, but solid as a rock. Then, he took note of the other man. He too was a giant. More brutish than Harry, but Salem could tell not stupid by a long shot. If they were hanging out at Gabe’s then, it meant that the old Sergeant respected them greatly.

      Harry took note of Salem’s cold appraisal of them, and reached his hand out.

      “Harry Devine and this is my spotter Justin Allworth. Nice to meet you. Heard some interesting tales about you.”

      “Yea, a pleasure. Hey, Freddie.”

      “Been too long, Elliot. Stop being such a fucking stranger.”

      “Never fucking in country. Thanks Dorrie, it smells great. I’ve got my Fifty, my Galil, my Franchi and my Makarov in the truck. No way their taking it with all my gear.”

      The room was dead quiet. Harry knew for certain that the truck damn sure didn’t have that kind of fire power in it.

      “Seems like you’d had a bit to drink yesterday…”

      “Yea, about 750 fucking miles worth, Harry, why?”

      “I searched the truck, man. Your shit’s not in it. Must a got nicked.”

      Salem laughed, and the effort on his raw throat made him cough.

      “Nah, you did good Harry. It’s there alright. After coffee I’ll show you.”

      “So Salem, Salem, Salem, what brings you to Gabe’s door step, or should I say mailbox?”

      “Hell, good thing he didn’t use airmail, or we’d really have a mess.” Justin threw in grinning.

      “No such thing anymore, dumb ass, all the mail flies now.”

      “Harry, why do you always have to try and show how smart you are?”

      “Comes natural.”

      “Yea, so where’s Salem’s guns smart ass?”

      “Back to my question, children.”

      Salem looked over at Yodell, and sighed. He wasn’t ready to tell anybody what he was doing a thousand miles from home with nothing but his shorts and wallet; that could wait.

      “Just had a bad morning, and went for a ride Odie, that’s all. I’ll be out of every ones hair once the trucks fixed.”

      “No rush Elliot, this is your home, when you need it. You know that.”

      “Thanks Dorrie, I appreciate it. Look I better clear out the truck. Tow guy don’t need to see what I have.”

      He stood up stiffly, re-filled his mug, and started out to the driveway with the rest of the men in tow anxiously waiting to have their curiosity satisfied.

      Salem blinked in the bright sun, and then grimaced when he saw the damage to first Gabe’s mailbox, and then his truck. The new, he’d only had it for three months, F-250 crew cab, King’s Ranch was a mess. The entire passenger side front quarter panel was smashed. The headlight was gone, the hood was crumpled, the grill bent beyond repair, the tire flattened and somehow the window of the door was blown out. How fast was he going, he wondered, when he’d hit the brick mailbox holder. Beneath the crippled vehicle a puddle of coolant mixed with Transmission fluid stained Gabe’s driveway. Another mess, he thought, that he’d need to clean up.

      “Hmm, guess I fucked up a little.”

      “Just a little, Fifty.” Gabe said slapping him on the back. “It amazes me you made it all the way here.”

      “Figure I knew in my fucked up brain that I was close, and just shut down. Happens. Well let’s get my shit.”

      They followed him round to the driver’s side, watched him open the door and climb in. He turned the key to accessory, and reaching over pushed a series of buttons on the radio. They heard a click, and he hopped back out. Then, he opened the back door, and reaching inside lifted up on the rear seat. The cushion rose up.

      “Yup, my babies are all safe and sound. Grab this, Odie.”

      Yodell stepped forward, and carefully took the big Barrett 107 fifty Cal, from Elliot’s out stretched hand. Next came the Franchi Spas twelve gauge, followed by the Galil, which Gabe took, and finally the precious little Makarov. Salem fished around a bit more, and finally came up with his Randall fighting Stiletto. Then slammed the seat back down. When he faced the group he was met by stunned silence.

      “What? M.I.T.’s a wiz with this kinda shit. We all have it in our trucks. You have room for them in the gun locker, Gabe?”

      “Yea, but you might have to break the Barrett down.”

      “No worries, ok let’s move out I see the tow dude coming.”


	3. Blind Devotion

**_ Chapter Three _ **

**_ Blind Devotion? _ **

 

      The group watched the flat bed tow truck load and haul Salem’s truck away. For Elliot, it was not exactly an unfamiliar sight; he just didn't seem to have very good luck with his vehicles. Luckily, for him, most of the accidents were not _technically_ his fault, but that had never stopped Rios from blaming him. He sighed and shoved his hands deeply into the pockets of the borrowed Levis. This one though, this one was definitely on him and he felt fortunate that it was only a mail box that he’d killed.

      “Figure my rates are gonna sky rocket, hunh?” He muttered absently to whomever might be listening, while digging the toe of a slightly too large right Nike running shoe into the layer of silty sand bucked up against the curb along Gabe’s street, and watching it bend upward where it stretched beyond his toes.

      Feeling disgusted with himself, he studied the silver and black Pegasus Air sullenly and sighed again. The ill-fitting hand me downs, although well intentioned, reminded him of his impoverished childhood and he felt a sudden wash of shame. He needed to go into town and get some clothes that actually fit.

      “More’n likely, Skittles. When was your last crash?”

      “Fuck Odie, six months back, maybe. Some asshole, tweakin’ on Meth, nailed me on the Ducati. Lucky he didn’t kill me. Was tight on my six, gunnin' the engine, some little fuckin' rice burner piece a shit, then bam! Just smacked me from behind and knocked me over the bars at a red light. Must've popped the clutch. Totaled the bike, but fuck, any time you wreck one a those bitches, no matter what, it’s always on you. Even Ty…well Rios said, just like he always says, ‘If you were fucking paying more attention, ass wipe, shit like that wouldn’t happen. You’re just an irresponsible little bitch, and a shitty driver.’ Guess he’s right. Can one a you guys run me to town? I need some clothes that fuckin’ fit.”

      Gabe reached out and patted Salem on his left shoulder.

      “Sure thing, kiddo. Just let me grab my keys.”

      While Gabe and Elliot were in town, the group, back at the house, lounged beside the sparkling pool, beers in hand, watching the robotic vacuum skim around after they’d repaired the dysfunctional unit. Justin, unable to stifle his characteristic curiosity any longer, began quizzing Dorrie and Odie about Salem. He’d heard the stories and rumors from many of the guys who straggled through the Benedict home and from guys still enlisted. The tales ranged from the absurd, to acts that many men considered heroic. What confused the young, up and coming Ranger was that Salem had simply walked away from the Army.

      “Skittles, did you actually call him Skittles, Freddie?”

      “Yup, Justin, I did. Harry and hand me a beer, thanks. You know Skittle,s teeny tiny candies with a ton of mouth blasting flavor. That’s Salem. A tiny package with a fuck of a lot of kick ass.”

      “Fuck me, if I’d wanna be called Skittles. So, he had so much going for him. I mean I’ve heard the stories. He was good, damned good and then, he, well both of them, just up and walk away; just sells his soul to the fucking PMC’s. I just don’t get it. Was it the money?”

      Dorrie considered the man’s question and fully understood his confusion. The private contractors were a much maligned and misunderstood entity in the evolving American military methodology. Conspiracy theories and trust matters aside, the idea that the government would pay private individuals to fight its wars, salaries many times greater than the volunteer soldiers received, appalled the majority of citizens. Serving military members were probably the most vocal opponent of the shift in operational paradigm, so Justin was not alone in his distaste for men like Elliot.

      “It is a complicated situation, Justin.”

      “Complicated how?” he snapped, annoyed that what he saw as the inalienable responsibility of serving your country, could be so readily cast aside for a better paycheck, “Freddie’s still in, Gabe’s still in, you’re still in, for your kinda job anyway, so I don’t see what the problem is. Ask me, and I’d say he’s a fucking materialistic traitor. They all are.”

      “Easy there, Justin.” Odell cautioned, “Salem’s no traitor and saying something like that to his face will likely get you killed. He’s paid a high price for…”

      “Like to see the little ass bitch try. Fucking Skittles, I’d…”

      “Get your neck snapped. Look Justin, back off a the man. It was his call and his life, so he don’t owe you or nobody else a reason.”

      “Guys, guys hold on. Elliot is a complex man.”

      “Oh, he’s not complex, Dorrie. He’s just another greedy dick using his government paid training to make an easy buck!”

      “Let her talk Justin.” Freddie growled, locking eyes with the younger man. It was an order and Justin obeyed it with a frustrated sigh.

      “Like I was saying, he comes across as a sort of simplistic guy, carefree, silly at times and more often than not immature and unskilled. None of that could be farther from the truth. He hit Somalia when he was just twenty-two, but he’d seen some fierce, violent action. He’d…”

      “Yea, yea, yea, we’ve heard it all before. Sarajevo yadda, yadda, yadda.”

      “Right and prior to that, Justin, he’d spent nearly three years in the adult population of Louisiana State Prison. He went in at barely fifteen. Do you have any idea how he suffered Justin? A small, sick, he was detoxing, fourteen and a half year old kid at the mercy of adult, violent felons. I won’t get into his home life, it was not very much better. He had no one on the outside, Justin. He’d just lost his team in Sarajevo, his first and only ‘family’ and then, the Army drops him, beat to hell, in Djibouti. Rios hates him straight away, but there is a condition, if you will, called Transference, where after a devastating loss, a person transfers their feelings for the lost person to someone else. It is an unconscious, yet very powerful, emotional shift in love and loyalty, and it often forms an unbreakable bond. For Salem loyalty is everything.”

      “You tellin’ me, that’s what happened to him? He got emotionally stuck to this Rios?”

      “Yes. Then Rios, who had served his fair share, decided to take Richard Dalton’s offer to go to SSC. The idea did not please Elliot though, but he couldn’t bear for Rios to go home alone any more than he could bear remaining behind, alone. So, he quits. He quits, figuring that he could change Rios’ mind and that they would ride off into the civilian sunset together. Anyway, he fails at re-integrating to civilian life alone. Rios rescues him and gets him settled in Miami. Still, Elliot refuses to join SSC, choosing to work at various construction trades, until, that is, Rios has his accident.”

      “The one that shredded his face.”

      Dorrie nodded solemnly and continued, “Yes, and when Tyson gets home, Elliot is devastated. He blames himself for not having protected Rios’ six and immediately signs a contract with SSC. So, you see Justin, his motivation was not monetary, as many people believe. As for the money, he spends it nearly as fast as he earns it and seldom on anything tangible. He rids himself of it as quickly as possible, in an effort, I think, to assuage his guilt for continuing to kill. If Rios didn’t manage his accounts for him he’d be penniless.

      Elliot takes no joy in killing, Justin. He killed his first man at the age of seven or eight, forced by his father as a pledge of fealty to the family, and his second at fourteen in self –defense, which landed him in the prison. So, he is no stranger to the responsibility of taking a life. That being said, if you cross him or someone he loves, he will end you and not think twice about his actions.”

     

     

     

     

     

     

                                                                                                                                                           

     


	4. Transference Is Blind

**_ Chapter Four _ **

**_ Transference Is Blind _ **

 

 

      “Have you called him yet, tracked him down?”

      Rios scrubbed at the semi-dry, un-naturally hued yellowy, orange macaroni and cheese residue clinging stubbornly to the Ecru colored dinner plate that he was washing and shrugged his huge shoulders. His father’s question irritated him. Besides feeling that it was none of the man’s damned business, he also felt a bit guilty for not making the call in question. When his son remained silent, Gus Rios prodded him again.

      “It’s been a two and a half weeks, Tyson. Aren’t you worried? Nala says he’s never gone missing like this without checking in. He left out of here with nothing, after all.”

      “He has his wallet. He can buy stuff.” He grumbled.

      “Has he?”

      Rios sighed and handed the now sparkling plate to the older man and picked up the matching gravy boat.    

      “Has he what?”

      “Bought anything. Nala says that you checked his accounts and…”

      “Then, dad, you know that he hasn’t. She talks too damn fucking much, that kid.” He spat out, flinching when he slipped in his scrubbing and the bowl splashed dirty water along the back board of the sink and up into his scowling face. “God damn it!”

      “Tyson, a couple of days, I could understand, but this is…the man _is_ missing. Doesn’t anyone at work wonder where he is?”

      “Sure, they figure, like I do, that he’s just fucking up again. That…”

      “Again! But this is not normal, Tyson, even for him. So many years and you just…”

      “I just what! Finally, say good riddance. What about me, dad? He doesn’t seem to care that this is hard for me does he, just disappearing. Here, this one’s done.”

      “Not for nothing, son, but you were out of line. That is, if what Nala told me is true. I understand your need to know, but you should have handled it differently.”

      Rios snatched another macaroni clad plate from the light gray granite apron sink, and stuck it under the hot water. They hadn’t allowed the dishes to sit for very long after supper, but even in that short period of time the cheesy food had adhered itself to them quite stubbornly. Salem was like that, Rios thought, stuck and stubborn.. According to Dorrie and SSC’s psychologist, Salem’s bond with Rios had formed in a matter of minutes. His problem was that he couldn’t just soak the troublesome younger man in hot sudsy water and flush him down the drain. The drain, maybe this was finally the end, or the beginning of the end. Their relationship had always spiraled the drain, so maybe this time it would actually slip away in a gray gurgling murk of bad blood.

      “Like I said, she talks too much.”

      Gus reached out and turned the water off, leaving Rios with the soapy plate un-rinsed. He leaned against the counter edge, on his palms, arms spread wide, closed his eyes and tried to compose his thoughts. He was angry with his son. Tyson’s behavior was juvenile and dangerous. A man was missing and quite probably in danger. Gus liked Elliot and if, as he’d told Tyson, what Nala reported was indeed true, then Elliot was probably an emotional wreck.

      “Look son…”

      “Don’t son me, Gus.”

      “Look Tyson, I can understand if you want to, need to end your relationship with him, but do you really want his getting hurt, or lying somewhere hurt and alone, or God forbid dying, on your heart, your conscience. Think about it. Think about Nala. She cries herself to sleep with worry.” Then after slapping the faucet handle upward and turning the water back on, “Rinse that plate, you’ve washed it three times already.”

      Later that night, after tucking a very reluctant, very belligerent Nala into bed, Rios sat staring at a computer screen displaying Elliot’s bank accounts. He knew that Salem often carried several hundred dollars in cash, but by now he should have hit up his accounts or credit cards for funds. His father, although irritating, was right. Nala too was driving him crazy. They’d argued and she’d staunchly refused to go to bed unless Tyson tried calling her uncle. The girl had gone as far as to threaten to run away to find him. Sighing and sipping his drink, he recalled the argument.

      “I’m going to Giddy’s! Giddy will look for him. He cares even though the rest of you hate him.”

      “I don’t, we don’t hate him, Peach. We…”

      “I am not your Peach until you find him, Rios!”

      “Rios?”

      “This is not a daddy, daughter matter! Either you try to find my Dragon One, or I will.”

      “He needs to grow up and learn to manage his emotions, Nala.” He spat angrily, finally fed up with her dis-respectful attitude, “He can’t just keep doing out of control stuff like disappearing. He has a job, responsibilities, a contract, people who depend on…”

      “He depends on you and you fucked him, Rios. He never, he wouldn’t ever fuck mom and you know it. How could you daddy, how could you even think for even a tiny second that he’d betray you like that? Get out. Just get out! I wish _he_ was my daddy. I love him and that’s more than I can say about your fat ass right now. Get out!”

      Chastised, Rios stepped away from her bed, as she rolled onto her left side facing away from him with the stuffed dragon, representing Salem, clutched beneath her right arm. When he turned, his mother was standing in the bedroom door, a look of utter shock upon her face. He strode toward her and the diminutive woman stepped aside as his bulk filled the door’s frame.

      “Not a word mom, not a word. I’ll be in my office.”

      Now, he was there, ensconced in his office, staring at Salem’s accounts. A phone call, his father made it sound so simple. Rios was certain that Elliot wouldn’t answer his own cell. All the calls from the team had gone unanswered. He knew that he wasn’t at home and had not gone home before disappearing. That much, at least, he’d done, at Murray’s bidding, three days after the argument. His visit to the dreary place showed that nothing in the un-tidy apartment had been touched. The man had vanished with nothing more than what he was wearing and his wallet and keys taken from Tyson’s foyer table. Then, Rios pondered, the argument? It hadn’t been that really, an argument. An off handed accusation, yes, but argument….Tyson sighed worriedly when he recalled that Elliot hadn’t actually argued with him over it, which was again completely out of character for the hot tempered man. So, who to call? Before he could make a decision his cell phone rang.

      “Rios.”

      “You hear from him yet?”

      “Negative Giddy, sitting here now trying to come up with a plan.”

      “A plan? How about telling me what the fuck happened, Rios?”

      “Negative. I’ll deal with it. Just gimme a few hours. I’ll find him.”

      “We mobilize in four days. If he’s still MIA, we’ll have to adjust our plans, drastically adjust them. We need a balls on sniper, Rios We need Fifty! Murray’s spinning out on me and Dalton’s ready to fire his dumb ass, contract be damned. You better fucking find him.”                                                                                       

      The line went dead and Rios re-filled his glass with two fingers of Shieldaig Speyside eighteen year old, single malt, studied it briefly, made it three, picked the phone back up and opened his contacts menu. His choices were few and after taking a sip of the smoky flavored malt whiskey, he punched the worst in. It rang seven times before switching to voice mail. Rios closed his eyes, squeezed the bridge of his scarred nose and listened to the message, first in Russian and then, in English. Even hearing the man’s voice on the shoddy recording irked him, ‘You have reached Vasily Tyannikov. Out of country. Six months. Leave message.’

      “Six months, six fucking months _from_ when, you fucking stupid, violent, Russian piece of shit. From when, to when? Fuck.”

      One down, he thought a bit sadly, and none really left to call. It struck home for him just how isolated and alone Elliot was outside of the team. He called three more possible people and then, finally, Gabe.

      “Benedict.”

      “Hey Bene, it’s Rios.”

      Gabe switched the phone to his right ear, stood and walked away from the table where the group was sitting around playing poker. He took a quick look over his shoulder and was glad to see that Elliot had taken little notice of the call. He was too intent upon losing his money to Harry.

      “Hello Tyson, what can I do for you? Everything ok, family’s doing well.”

      “Yea, ah, they’re all good. Look, Elliot’s missing in action. You haven’t seen him, heard from him, anything like that. It’s been a while.”

      A while Gabe thought, just over two weeks and the bastard was just now getting round to looking. He tamped his anger down and held his voice steady.

      “Nope, can’t say that we have. Why, problems?”

      “No, maybe, there was, we had, well he took off after our last op and it’s not like him.”

      “No, well, what happened?”

      “Not important. I just need to get him home. We’re mobile again in a few days so…”

      “Must have been important to him, no?”

      “Guess so. Look, I gotta run. Just call me if he shows. Oh, and Odie, Gabe, I don’t have a contact for him, but if you do, check with him for me. Who knows, the little bitch is so far to ground this time I don’t have a clue. Rios out.”

      With no one left to contact, Rios called it a night, locked up his office and shuffled off to bed.

      Nala awoke with a start, the dream plaguing her slipping away, leaving only the slightest tendril of memory behind. She’d been running, running away from the baddies with Elliot in tow. They’d wounded him badly and she was nearly out of ammo. She’d been screaming into her mic for back up, but none of the team would respond and they were desperately close the enemies slaughtering them. She lay very still, on her back in her small bed, struggling to get her breathing under control the way Salem had instructed her, while staring up at the slowly whirling ceiling fan. She imagined that it was the rotors of a chopper finally coming in to exfil them. She set the stuffed dragon on her chest and held it tightly.

      “Just hold on to me tight, and I’ll get us up there, Dragon One. It will all be over and you and me will be home soon. You’ll be safe again.”

      After a bit she set the toy carefully aside and slipped from beneath the warm blankets. A check of her watch showed it to be 0215 hours. Everyone, she thought, should be in bed. Even her mother should be home and asleep after her ‘girls’ night out.’

      “I’m done waiting. Time for action.” She whispered to the patient dragon.

      Twenty minutes later she was standing in the kitchen, dressed in her black mission gear, slipping the house land line hand set out of its cradle. She read a number off of a tiny slip of paper, dialed it, and then swallowed the scrap. After four rings, the answering machine picked up and Tyannikov’s voice crackled in Russian, addressing her directly, saying that he was out of contact, and to try again. She left a concise message, and hung up cursing her luck.

      Sighing, she dialed a second number from the phone’s memory. After four chirp-like rings someone answered.

      “Benedict’s”

      She froze. The gravelly voice was un-familiar.

      “Hello?” it pressed.

      “Is Gabe home please?”

      Harry pulled the receiver away from his ear and studied it, as if he might actually be able to see the caller. It was late and he found it strange that a young girl would be calling for Gabe at that hour.

      “Ah, he’s in bed. Can I maybe help? I’m Harry. Who is this? It’s late.”

      “I apologize, Harry. I just need to talk to Gabe. I know that it’s late, but I’m on an op and late’s just, well I can’t help it being late. It’s early some fucking where, right Harry. So, can you get Gabe up on comms? Can you do that, Harry?”

      Harry frowned and considered her request. Comms, op, fucking and the way she said Harry; it was all a bit too _military_. Who the hell was this kid? Her tone was too assertive and it actually un-nerved him, compelled him to comply. Then, it hit him. It was Rios’ kid, the one called And-A-Half. Salem, after drinking a considerable amount of beer several nights ago, had chattered on endlessly about her and the ops they ran and how he was training her up to be an operator, and how she was un-cannily good at mimicking how they spoke during ops. She was like a talking bird, he’d boasted. Harry bit his tongue. He couldn’t acknowledge the girl just yet. Gabe promised Elliot a safe refuge until he chose to re-appear and admitting to knowing who she was, without an introduction, might give the man up.

      “Well, like I said, I’m Harry, and I need an I.D. to give Gabe, along with your message, copy?”

      There was a pause while she considered his demand.

      “Copy that, Harry. This is And-A-Half, and I need his ear, post haste.”

      Harry grinned. The simple _copy that_ had reeled her in. He could sense from the tone of her voice that she’d begun to trust him.

      “Post haste, And-A-Half., sure, hold for five mikes.”

      “I copy your last, Harry, hold for five mikes.”

      Harry set the phone down on the end table, shook his head in disbelief and made for Gabe’s bedroom. He knocked on the door and waited.

      “Yea?”

      “Hey, Top. I got an And-A-Half up on comms well, on the phone, she says it’s urgent. Needs to talk to you post haste.”

      “Shit! On my way.”

      The door opened up and Gabe appeared rubbing sleep from his eyes.

      “Post haste? She said that, post haste. Fuck me, Fifty wasn’t kidding was he.”

      “Nope, she was spot on. Had me hoppin’ to comply.”

      The duo returned to the study and the old soldier picked up the phone.

      “Hey kiddo, what can I do you for?”

      “My Dragon One’s MIA and nobody cares. I don’t know what else to do. He’s nowhere, Gabe, nowhere, and daddy’s mad and Murray’s mad and gonna fire him and, is he with you? Tell me he’s with you.”

      Gabe furrowed his brow. This was an un-expected twist. She was putting up a brave front, but he could sense her desperation. Nala, he knew, was a very smart, gifted, adept child and he was afraid that, if he mismanaged her, the situation would spiral further out of control. Still, he’d promised Elliot a safe haven and he’d keep his word. It would break his heart to lie to her, but for now that was his only recourse.

      “No Nala, he’s not. He’s not here, but if I hear from him I’ll call you. Why did he leave?”

      “Daddy, Rios, he said mean things. Same as always. I don’t have time to explain, I have to keep looking, keep moving. No one has his six out there. Will you look too? Put a BOLO out up on your end.”

      “Sure, I have some folks I can call, folks he doesn’t usually see, but might go to. You just hold your twenty and…”

      “Kostay, well Vasily’s out of country, so scratch him. Say again, hold…I didn’t copy your last, hold… hold what, Gabe? Gabe…Thanks, And-A-Half out.”

      “Nala, Nala, damn it she hung up. I know that she fucking heard me. Fuck…if I had a buck for every time Fifty did that shit to me…fuck!”

      “Quite the kid.”

      “Harry you do not know the half of it. I wonder if I should call that fat fucker and let him know Nala’s looking for Salem?”

      “I wouldn’t, hell what’s she gonna do, make a few more late night phone calls. Leave it until morning, Top and see what Elliot wants to do.”

      “Yea, you’re probably right. Rios’ place is in the middle of nowhere. Where could she go? How could she go? See you in the morning.”

      Nala hung up the phone after erasing the call history and plodded back to her room. Her next step was Giddy, but she wasn’t going to _just_ call him. Elliot had taught her that meetings always went better face to face. It was an eighteen klick stage to the nearest bus stop, and then she’d need to hop the metro south. After that, ride a city bus to just outside of his neighborhood, before hoofing it again for another three klicks. No sense in prolonging the inevitable, she figured, and thirty minutes later, after breaking into Rios’ gun safe and arming herself with his Sig Sauer 1911 Tac Ops pistol, two clips and her Randall fighting stiletto, she’d disabled the lights and reflectors on her black GT Zaskar mountain bike and was peddling out of Rios’ subdivision, headed for Giddy.

 

***

 

      “Nala, time to get up, sweetie. Nala?” Rios’ mother, Bea, called into the girl’s bedroom door. “Nala, breakfast.”

      When she received no reply, Bea stepped into the darkened room and turned on the overhead light. The bed was neatly made, and the girl’s precisely pressed school uniform remained set out on a chair. The confused woman crossed to the clothing, brushed her right finger tips along the neatly pleated khaki slacks and turned round surveying the room. She’d already been in the kitchen and had not seen the child. She supposed that maybe she might be out with the dog, or in the garage, but both scenarios were very out of character. The morning routine was always strictly adhered to. Rios had already gone to SSC headquarters and Samantha to work, meaning that the child was not with either parent. She returned to the kitchen, looking for Nala along the way, even knocking on Rios’ locked office door, and poking her head into the garage. Gus was sitting at the breakfast bar when she arrived.

      “What were you thinking, Bea? You were burning the bacon.”

      “Oh, sorry. Did you rescue it? I got held up. Nala, have you seen her? She’s not in her room, and her school clothes are still there. Hasn’t used her bathroom either, the sink’s dry. Last night she threatened to run away and find Elliot. Oh my God, Gus what if she has!”

      Gus sipped his coffee and set it aside. He couldn’t believe that the girl would behave so foolishly.

      “I know, you told me, but just getting out of this neighborhood is a hike and then, well I can’t see her actually trying it. Giddy’s place is damn near thirty miles from here, by foot, train, bus and I guess foot again. Calm down Bea, she’s fine, I’m sure. I’ll search out back and you, well shut this food off and go through the house again. Be thorough, Bea.”

      Twenty minutes later they, re-grouped in the kitchen, and Gus’ first words shattered Bea’s heart.

      “Her bicycle’s gone. I’ll call Tyson.”

     

     

     

     


End file.
